Garrus Vakarian and the Recon Hood
by Oceans in Hand
Summary: Garrus takes issue with the recon hood. Takes place about halfway through ME3, no major spoilers. FemShep/Garrus.


**Garrus Vakarian and the Recon Hood**

He'd known the war would eventually take its toll. It weighed heavily on the crew, his squadmates, but Shepard bore weight enough to drive a lesser person out of the airlock. She was the only one to blame herself for feeling it.

He knew she dreamed, and that the visions bothered her to such a point she dodged sleep. Knew Dr. Chakwas wanted to prescribe medication for migraines and insomnia, but had pressed as much as she dared until the Commander's state affected her in the field.

To advise the retreat gnawed at him. Every grainy vid that came through, every worried broadcast he walked by on the Citadel made him itch, made him sick. Meanwhile Shepard been asked to decide the future of races, to make decisions that put her home world at risk, to choose between genocides. His respect for her only grew at the fact she still stood, that she maintained an appearance of sound composure. Her doubts and fears were indiscernible as long as she kept moving.

She tried to show him the same face, and part of him appreciated it, the shrinking bit that felt like the rebellious C-Sec officer who still occasionally snagged his mandibles on his Mantis, and who hero-worshipped the human Spectre as if fresh growth marked her passage. The rest of him knew all too well that she needed to bleed her wounds in the quiet moments after each world-shaking mission, and doubted she would turn to anyone if not even him.

The lines at her eyes grew deeper. Had she hair longer than a fifth of an inch he would scan it for gray. Her performance planetside ramped into overdrive, but he found her more often leaning against the Normandy's hull, breathing as if were a chore.

_That_ hurt.

Then she found that damned hood and, though never one for noncrucial headgear, took a strange liking to it.

He hated it. Wearing it and the familiar old black N7, she uncomfortably resembled Cerberus's snipers. Her voice came distorted through its filters, passionless and so disturbingly unlike her, he wanted to jerk it up to her nose so at least she sounded like herself.

Above all else, it was another way for her to hide herself away, and that was a privilege Garrus couldn't bring himself to leave her. He resolved to take the damn thing from her.

It was locked away in the shuttle bay with the rest of their gear during the off hours, and he found it without trouble. He considered the reenforced weave as it draped heavy on his palm, Cortez and Vega's banter in the background.

The material was cool and slick as water, the sense of it somehow felt through his gauntlets as it flowed through his grip.

It didn't feel right, for it to disappear from the communal cabinet. He put it back.

There was a moment, he thought, that would be right, be best, and maybe she would begin to understand.

He watched, and the time seemed to come after recruiting Jacob's scientists, while waiting for them to finish packing and destroying and watching the skies nervously. Shepard was making rounds through the facility. He caught her in one of the red-lit maintenance corridors.

"Garrus." She acknowledged him with a nod.

"Shepard."

The deliberate subtonals gave her pause. She cast a look down the corridor as he approached, the motion broader than it would ordinarily be because of the hood. Beneath it he imagined she was amused, watching with that look that made him simultaneously second-guess himself and imbued him with confidence.

The next part would be difficult. He wanted to back her against the shaft, rip the hood up and kiss her senseless like in the vids-but what approximation they'd become practiced at required too much care, for his teeth, or possible allergic reactions to quite fit the scene he imagined. The hardsuits nixed all other kinds of distracting stimulation he could surprise her with, and soldiers who didn't let active combat stop them were a breed neither he nor Shepard had use for.

So it wouldn't be vid-perfect, but maybe he could still make the desired impression. Shepard shook her head when he tugged the fabric off, blinking curiously up at him and clearly puzzled.

"Garrus-?"

Kissing they would never start trends in, but affectionate headbutts they'd mastered back at day one. He made the long, rumbling pleased noise he knew she liked, pressing further into her space. Shepard laughed-a too rare occurrence-and hung her hands from the crest of his armor, humming back. Her skin was flushed from the confines of the hood, but dry to his eye. It probably wicked moisture.

He flicked the hood away, listening carefully for the sound of it slipping through the slats of the walkway and falling away.

It wouldn't be perfect but, maybe enough for the moment.


End file.
